


Speaking Out

by wickedthoughts



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Creepy Brock Rumlow, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dehumanization, Gang Rape, Gen, HYDRA Trash Party, Homophobia, M/M, Mind Control, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Slurs, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 10:36:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10695261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedthoughts/pseuds/wickedthoughts
Summary: I. Rumlow gets an idea.II. The Asset doesn't like his new missions.III. Steve does the wrong thing for what he thinks is the right reason.IV. Bucky struggles to move forward, forgive, and heal.





	Speaking Out

**Author's Note:**

> For a [hydtratrashmeme](http://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/2271.html?thread=5113567#cmt5113567) prompt.
> 
> Please check the tags and read with caution. This is a story about rape and its aftermath. It includes a brief foray into the mind of a rapist. It also includes homophobic slurs.

* * *

  _I. Rumlow_

_____  
  
He'd only wanted to check ESPN to see the highlights of the game he'd missed last night (thanks, now-assassinated politician from Bolivia). CNN had been the channel his TV blinked on to, and Steve Rogers' golden-boy face had been there. Misty-eyed as he talked about whatever bullshit he was there to spew for SHIELD. _Truth, justice, the American way._ If only he knew.  
  
Brock's finger was poised on the remote to change the channel to something less vomit-inducing, but then he registered the words underneath Rogers. CAPTAIN AMERICA SPEAKS OUT ABOUT VICTIMS OF SEXUAL ABUSE. He paused. This might actually be good for a laugh.  
  
"-and we have this preconceived notion of what a victim is _supposed_ to be," Rogers was saying passionately. "Any variation from that, and you get the tired excuses we use to justify and ignore this evil. Like thinking that what a victim wears makes them responsible for their assault on any level. The normalization of rape-culture. The idea that men can't be victims of sexual abuse."  
  
"Yeah, Cap," Brock jeered at the TV. "Take back the night!"  
  
"You spoke earlier this week at a fundraiser for male abuse survivors," prompted a female reporter from off-camera. "You talked about a friend of yours who'd been assaulted. One of the famous Howling Commandos, Sergeant James Barnes?"  
  
"Bucky," Rogers' voice quavered, and Brock snickered as he made himself comfortable on his couch. "Yes, and I- I wouldn't have told his story if he was alive today, but, uh, I really think he would want me to. I think he would've wanted to help other people who are going through the same thing. He was proof that this can happen to anybody, and it doesn't make you any less strong, or brave, or good. It doesn't make you any less of a man- "  
  
Brock was starting to tune out Rogers' drivel, but then a new image flashed onscreen and he sat up straighter, his interest renewed. He'd probably seen the picture before, in one of the files on Rogers' history that he'd had to read before he took the assignment to work closely with the Captain. It was a black-and-white picture of a grim-faced young man sitting next to Steve Rogers in all his 1940-whatever splendor, but unlike the pictures in the file, this one was blown up, life-size and in HD. Brock squinted, trying to determine if his eyes were playing tricks on him. Because he knew that face in real life. He'd only seen it a handful of times, but he knew it. It was hard to forget the face of Hydra's most-feared assassin.  
  
"Well, I'll be a son of a bitch," he said out loud when he figured out that his eyes were working just fine. "Wait 'til Rollins hears about this."  
  
*  
  
"No shit, dumbass," Rollins scoffed at Brock later that morning while they stood with three of their teammates, waiting for their debriefing from the previous night. "You didn't know? I thought everybody knew."  
  
"I didn't know," Johannson piped up, but his mouth snapped shut when Brock focused his ire on him.  
  
"The Asset is Captain America's best buddy from the good old days," Brock turned back to Rollins to make sure the other man wasn't messing with him. "How the fuck was that not highlight number one on the need-to-know portion of this STRIKE team?"  
  
Rollins shrugged.  
  
"I figured it out pretty easily."  
  
"Well, ain't you mister gifted-and-talented," Brock grumbled.  
  
"Didn't know he was a fag, though," Rollins' lip curled. "That's disappointing."  
  
"Hey, just 'cause he got raped doesn't make him a- "  
  
It was Rollins' turn to glare Johansson into silence. Brock laughed.  
  
"Rollins being a ‘phobe notwithstanding, I think you gentlemen are missing the opportunities this presents,” Brock licked his lips, thinking about the picture he’d seen on TV. Thinking about the Asset’s blank stare as he took orders. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. He’s got that pretty face, those pouty lips, and that hair. Goddamn."  
  
"What are you talking about, Rumlow?" Morrison asked. Brock rounded on him.  
  
"I'm talking about a living, breathing sex doll. I’m talking about literally sticking it to that sanctimonious fuckwad Rogers and his entire fucking legacy.”  
  
“You want to fuck the Asset?”  
  
“Yeah, Ramirez,” Brock turned to him. “I wanna fuck the Asset.”  
  
“I saw him rip a man’s throat out with that arm of his,” Ramirez said with awe. “I wouldn’t let him anywhere near my dick. I mean, if I even swung that way.”  
  
Brock rolled his eyes.  
  
“Okay, but, you know why he ripped that guy’s throat out? Because he was ordered to, directly or not,” Brock explained as if to a child. “They got these words, and if you say them to him he’s gotta do whatever you tell him to. Whether that’s _'kill this guy'_ or _'get on your knees'_ is up to you.”  
  
“But I don’t swing that way,” Ramirez repeated, a little too forcefully.  
  
“Good, more for me.”  
  
“Is he even really a man, though?” Morrison mused. “I’ve always thought of him as more of a thing. Like an _it_ not a _he._ Like, is it gay if you fuck a vacuum cleaner?”  
  
“If it has a dick, yeah,” Ramirez said.  
  
“All of this is pointless speculation,” Rollins interrupted. “Because none of us are a high enough level to know the Asset’s command codes.”  
  
“Leave that to me.”  
  
Brock spoke with more confidence than he actually had. He was committed now, though. The more he thought about it, the more he needed to feel the Asset’s mouth on his cock. The more he needed to hear him grunt while Brock fucked him like a whore. _Thanks for the hot tip, Rogers._  
  
He grinned idiotically.  
  
“Pierce will kill you,” Rollins warned. “If you even get that far.”  
  
“Please,” Brock scoffed. “He’ll probably wanna join in. He’ll probably promote me.”  
  
“In your dreams.”  
  
Brock thought he saw the flash of a hungry gleam in Rollins’ eyes.  
  
“Don’t worry,” Brock promised him smugly. “Once you see how good it is, I’ll let you have a turn, too.”

* * *

_II. Asset_

_____  
  
The faces changed, as did the language, but there was always one constant. They always told him how good he was. _"Good work, Soldier,"_ they’d say after he’d fulfilled his orders. _"Well done."_ He didn’t remember much, but he remembered that. That he was very good at what he did. He was proud of that.  
  
Some of the orders he was receiving here in America’s capital city made him uncomfortable. He followed them, of course, because he wanted to be useful and good, and he was proud of that, but some of these new orders-  
  
“Take off your clothes, turn around, and get on your hands and knees.”  
  
He complied as quickly as he could. Agent Rumlow had worked with him to take down Nick Fury. Rumlow was good, too. He believed in peace and justice. He believed in following orders. Working with him before had been rewarding.  
  
Working with him now was strange and uncomfortable.  
  
“Good boy,” Rumlow said, gripping the Asset’s long hair tightly from behind and forcing his head back so far it hurt, exposing his neck to attack. “You remember what I like, don’t you?”  
  
Looking up at Rumlow, neck straining, he grunted his assent. He did remember. He hadn’t needed any wipes for weeks. He was glad for that, even if he understood the necessity. Wipes were painful, but they enabled him to do his job. To be good.  
  
He wished he didn’t have to remember what Rumlow liked, but it was essential to the mission, so he remembered every detail. He remembered that Rumlow liked him to struggle. Rumlow liked him to make noises of distress when he was pounding himself inside the Asset. Rumlow liked him to cry, and to plead for him to stop. All things that he didn’t do, but that Rumlow had ordered him to do so he had to do them.  
  
Following Rumlow’s orders was the most uncomfortable, but maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if Rumlow was the only participant. There were a group of men that followed Rumlow’s turn with the Asset. Agents Morrison and Johannson always. Agent Rollins twice. Once an agent called Ramirez, but he hadn’t gotten farther than shoving his half-hard penis inside the Asset’s mouth, then panicking and rushing from the fortified vault while the other men jeered. The Asset understood that Ramirez had failed his portion of the mission, which meant the Asset had failed, too. That would have bothered him, but not for this particular mission. Failure or not, for these missions the absent-Ramirez was his favorite colleague.  
  
There had been four of these missions so far, including the current one, and he remembered what Morrison liked (only with his mouth, and Morrison liked to call him “it”), and Johannson (for him to face Johannson, to make noises of pleasure, and to orgasm along with him). Rollins liked to slap him around even more than Rumlow, but he wanted the Asset to be silent when he was inside him.  
  
“Johannson, how’s that little fundraiser of ours going?”  
  
The Asset heard Rumlow’s voice over Rollins’ grunts. From the sound of them, he knew Rollins would be done with him any moment now.  
  
“Agent Boone’s leading. Almost two thousand bucks.”  
  
“Huh,” Rumlow sounded speculative. “Might shake things up to get a chick down here.”  
  
Rollins orgasmed, his fingers gripping the Asset’s hips punishingly as he plowed into him. The name Agent Boone meant nothing to him, neither did Rumlow’s talk of a fundraiser, so the Asset focused on being silent and not falling over from his ordered hands-and-knees position.  
  
“Having Boone here would be good,” Rollins agreed, inside the Asset. “Make everything a little less queer, I guess.”  
  
“How many times do I gotta tell you,” Morrison interjected. “It’s not _queer_ if it’s not really a person.”  
  
“Just keep telling yourself that.”  
  
Rollins pulled out of the Asset, a trail of warm semen dribbling out behind him. The Asset recalibrated his position and awaited instruction. He was relieved that it was over. The relief clouded his satisfaction at a successful mission. It was distressing.  
  
“Let’s go,” Rumlow said after the noise of Rollins zipping up his fly had faded. “Soldier, clean yourself up and get dressed. Don’t tell anybody about the last hour.”  
  
The Asset complied as the men locked him back in his vault. He reminded himself that he was very good at his job, no matter how uncomfortable it made him. He was proud of that.  
  
*  
  
“Hey, sweetheart. Wake up.”  
  
The Asset’s eyes opened to the vault’s ceiling, before he swiveled his head to look at Agent Rumlow standing on the opposite side of the barred door, leering at him. The Asset was lying on his cot, preparing for the mission Pierce had given him. He required three hours of sleep for every twenty-four hour cycle to perform at optimum capacity, but he determined that he hadn’t fulfilled that time frame, and he was troubled by the fleeting memories of the dream he’d woken from. His sleep cycle was normally empty, but ever since Rumlow’s new missions he’d been having disturbing dreams. It made him miss cryo. There were no dreams in cryo.  
  
Rumlow typed in the code and spun the locks to open the vault’s door. The Asset was afraid when there was no longer a barrier between them. The Asset was never this afraid, and the feeling made him even more afraid. A never ending cycle of terror.  
  
The vault door slammed shut behind Rumlow, trapping the Asset inside with him. He could kill this man so easily, yet he was trapped with him. The paradox was distressing.  
  
_“Die Erdbeere ist zu schwer.”_  
  
Rumlow said the words that told the Asset to stand at attention and not move or speak until further orders were issued. He swung his legs over the side of his cot and rose. His heart was beating too fast. It was distracting.  
  
“Heard we’re going after Rogers, Romanoff, some guy called Wilson, and that pissant Sitwell tomorrow.”  
  
The corresponding faces to those names flashed through the Asset’s mind, disappearing once Rumlow was beside him, touching his cheek, and playing gently with his hair. The Asset knew the violence would begin at any moment. That was the worst part of Rumlow’s missions, the knowing, and yet the surprise of it when it finally began.  
  
“It’s gonna be dangerous, goin’ after two goddamn Avengers. Rogers alone might kill us all, not to mention that sneaky little Ruskie bitch.”  
  
At least Rumlow was alone for this mission. The Asset didn’t register anyone else in the vault, on either side of the door.  
  
“Bribed your guards to take the night off,” Rumlow said in his ear, as if reading his thoughts. “Wanted you all to myself for what might be our last time.”  
  
He was unbuckling the straps across the Asset’s chest himself. This was different. Usually the Asset was ordered to strip himself.  
  
“Should’ve been keeping you all for myself this whole time,” Rumlow finished removing the Asset’s top layers. “But it was hard enough gettin’ your codes by myself. Needed some help from the others to bribe the guards every time. To cut the camera feed, distract Pierce.”  
  
He removed the Asset’s mask. His mouth smashed savagely against the Asset’s, and the Asset opened his lips as he knew Rumlow wanted, continuing to maintain his straight-backed position while he awaited Rumlow’s next order. Rumlow’s words were confusing and they slid off the Asset’s mind like oil. They weren’t relevant to the mission. Or, if they were, they weren’t for him to think about.  
  
“Mmm,” Rumlow pulled his mouth away. “You’re so sweet. Aren’t you, gorgeous? They took some doe-eyed boy scout, Cap’s best friend no less, and turned him into a murder machine.”  
  
The words were distressing him. He knew they meant something, but he couldn’t grasp exactly what.  
  
“It’s diabolical, even for Hydra,” Rumlow was undoing the Asset’s belt now. “I love it.”  
  
The Asset’s pants slid down around his ankles, caught on his boots. Rumlow was kneeling down to unlace them.  
  
“Boone won our fundraiser,” Rumlow offered conversationally. “She paid out four thousand bucks just to get a turn with you, assuming we survive tomorrow. And here I always thought she was a lesbian. Lift up your right foot.”  
  
The Asset complied. Rumlow slid off his boot and sock.  
  
“You might get a chance to get _your_ dick wet for once. Bet you’d like that, huh? Lift your left now.”  
  
He complied, then complied again to help Rumlow finish removing his pants. The Asset was naked in the vault’s dim light. The temperature wasn’t close to resembling cold, but the Asset shivered.  
  
“You shoulda seen Rogers’ face,” Rumlow had a sadistic smile as he rose to his feet and started unzipping his fly. “We gave him all the money we got from people bidding on you for his stupid rape charity. Came to almost ten grand. I thought he was gonna cry.”  
  
_-gaunt face, watery blue eyes, split lip bleeding. Bony hand swiping tears angrily away as the Asset came to his aid. The skinny boy said a name that was not the Asset’s name, because he had no name, but he responded as if it was-_  
  
“Hey!”  
  
The Asset saw Rumlow’s fingers in front of his face; heard them snap to get his attention. Rumlow shouldn’t have to get the Asset’s attention, the Asset should already be at attention. He was failing, and he was distressed. The skinny boy’s face faded and he was glad.  
  
“The fuck is wrong with you?”  
  
The Asset was irritated, and he glared at the other man. There was nothing wrong with him. He was good. He was the best. This was _Rumlow’s_ fault, with his contradictory missions, and he didn’t have to answer unless Rumlow gave him a direct order.  
  
“We gotta get this show on the road.”  
  
Rumlow began the string of Russian words to take direct control of the Asset’s mind. It shouldn’t distress the Asset, but it did. When Rumlow had finished, the Asset let him know he was ready for the mission.  
  
But he was afraid.  
  
“Get down on your belly, bitch,” Rumlow ordered. “You know what I like.”  
  
The Asset complied and the violence finally began.  
  
After Rumlow left, the Asset was unable to finish his sleep cycle. He hated Rumlow for that. He hated himself for how much of a failure that made him.  
  
He hated how much it distressed him.

* * *

_III. Steve_

_____

He hadn’t planned on telling anyone Bucky’s secret. It came about when he attended a class at the VA, right after he met Sam jogging around the Lincoln Memorial. Some of the other veterans at the VA were intrigued by his presence, and one of them, a man who introduced himself as Fred, struck up a conversation by the coffee table after the class was over.  
  
“It means a lot, seeing you here,” Fred told Steve. “I mean, if Captain America’s got problems, it makes it a little less embarrassing for the rest of us.”  
  
“I’m glad,” Steve said earnestly. “But you’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about.”  
  
“I got raped, in basic,” Fred responded, his tone casual. “That’s pretty embarrassing.”  
  
Steve was used to the candor of strangers. Something about his celebrity status made people say things they normally wouldn’t to someone they’d just met. This was a new one, however, and he reeled internally.  
  
“I’m sorry. Did- did they get the person who did it?”  
  
“Nah. I mean, it wasn’t- it was a woman, my superior officer. They dinged her for having ‘sexual relations’ with a cadet, but they said women can’t really rape men, so- ”  
  
Fred shrugged, trying to mask his pain.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Steve repeated, tamping down his anger at the system. “But that’s still nothing to be embarrassed about. It wasn’t your fault.”  
  
Fred remained visibly unconvinced, and Steve grasped for something to offer in the way of help. He needed to help.  
  
“I had a friend, back then,” the secret rolled off his tongue. “A man. It happened to him, too. It can happen to anybody.”  
  
Fred perked up at that. Not a lot, but enough to let Steve know he had gotten through to him. Later that night, after some internet research in his apartment, he decided to do something more. There were people doing such good work for sexual abuse survivors of all genders, and he wanted to help. He could speak up about this issue, use his fame for something better than mopping up SHIELD’s messes.  
  
He’d have to use Bucky’s name, he decided, to avoid people speculating wildly about which friend he was referring to. He’d promised Bucky so long ago that he’d never tell anyone what had happened to him, and it felt bad, breaking that promise, but he was convinced it was the right thing to do. It would help other people, and Bucky would have wanted that.  
  
Steve felt the familiar clench of heart and gut when he thought about Bucky. That deep, lingering grief that seventy years hadn’t erased, and seventy more probably wouldn’t either. His friend had fallen to his death without the support and understanding he’d needed. Steve didn’t want anybody else to go through that. He knew Bucky wouldn’t either.  
  
“I miss you, Buck,” Steve said to the empty room. He didn’t really think Bucky could hear him, but it was comforting to pretend. “Forgive me?”  
  
There was only silence as Steve began composing emails.  
  
*  
  
Eight months after the fall of SHIELD, and the first thing Bucky did when Steve found him was deck him in the jaw.  
  
Steve had found Bucky’s apartment in Bucharest, and come in through the window. Bucky had come home a few minutes after that, taken a long look at Steve (who’d stepped forward hopefully no matter how stupid that was) and punched him. He used his right hand, which Steve took as a measure of recognition, but still. Steve staggered backward, unarmed and in civvies, putting up his hands in surrender. He should have brought Sam and Nat with him, but it had been such a thin lead.  
  
“Bucky, it’s me!”  
  
He was afraid that Bucky wouldn’t know him, that he would try to beat Steve to death like he had in the Helicarrier.  
  
“Do you know who I am, Bucky?”  
  
He repeated Bucky’s name, because while he was afraid of what Bucky might do to him, he was even more afraid that Bucky wouldn’t remember his own name. Steve still had nightmares about his best friend’s empty eyes and emptier tone as he inquired _”Who the hell is Bucky?”_ before leveling a gun at Steve’s head.  
  
“You told,” Bucky growled instead. “You said you wouldn’t tell anybody, but you did.”  
  
It took Steve a moment to understand. When he did, and after the relief of being recognized had passed, horrible guilt surged in his chest.  
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
Bucky’s eyes narrowed incredulously.  
  
“Fuck you.”  
  
Steve watched warily as Bucky shed his overcoat in the apartment’s entryway and walked over to the small refrigerator. There was a notebook on top that Steve had noticed, buried underneath two brightly packaged candy bars. Bucky slid the notebook out from underneath, opened it, and flipped through it until he found what he was looking for.  
  
“This is your idea of not telling anybody, huh?”  
  
Steve recognized the pamphlet Bucky was waving at him. He knew what was inside.  
  
“You’re right,” Steve dipped his head minutely, not taking his eyes off Bucky. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“You know where I got this, Steve? In the lobby of the fucking Smithsonian. The little story you have in here is all over the fucking internet. I didn’t want anyone to know, and now the whole fucking world knows, so don’t you fucking dare say you’re _sorry_ ‘cause that ain’t gonna cut it.”  
  
Bucky’s rant had the flow of rehearsal to it. It hurt, thinking about how many times Bucky had practiced that speech. It hurt, how much Steve knew he deserved it.  
  
“You’re right,” Steve tried again. “It wasn’t mine to tell, even if you really had been dead. Which, by the way, I’m really, really happy you’re not, Buck.”  
  
He cracked a smile at Bucky, holding back his greater joy that not only was Bucky alive, but he was right here and he knew Steve, even if he was angry with him. More than anything, Steve wanted Bucky to smile back at him. Bucky looked down at his feet instead.  
  
“That makes one of us.”  
  
“Come back to New York with me,” Steve tried, ignoring the troubling implications of Bucky’s statement. “I can get you asylum with the Avengers while we figure all the legal stuff out.”  
  
Bucky looked up at him sharply. He still had the notebook clutched in his left hand, the crumpled pamphlet for the Male Survivors Support Network in his right.  
  
“I won’t be locked up again,” he warned icily, shaking his head. “I won’t.”  
  
“No one’s gonna lock you up,” Steve swore. “I won’t let them.”  
  
“You can’t promise that.”  
  
He was right, Steve knew. It wasn’t just the US Government they had to contend with, Bucky was wanted in at least twenty other countries, including the one they were in right now.  
  
“Not that I don’t deserve to be locked up, or worse,” Bucky continued. “God, the things I’ve done.”  
  
“It wasn’t you. It wasn’t your fault.”  
  
The conversation was becoming disturbingly familiar, but Steve didn’t want to point out the parallels between this and what had happened back in 1944. He was pretty sure Bucky could already see them. Steve’s heart ached for his friend. For everything he’d suffered, and for Steve’s own role in that suffering.  
  
“Yeah, well, I still did it, Steve. I wasn’t strong enough to stop them from making me do it.”  
  
“No,” Steve said adamantly. “I’m not gonna listen to any of that bullshit. Not from them, and not from you.”  
  
Bucky looked away. Steve grasped for something to say. Something that would convince Bucky to get on the jet with him.  
  
“Did this help anybody?”  
  
Bucky broke the silence through gritted teeth, waving the pamphlet at Steve again. Guilt and hope warred inside Steve.  
  
“Yeah. A lot of guys, Buck.”  
  
“Good,” Bucky’s shoulders relaxed a little. “It’s not okay, that you told, but I’m glad it helped somebody.”  
  
Steve choked down another empty apology. He nodded at Bucky.  
  
“A lot of guys,” Steve repeated. “Some of ‘em would probably like to meet you.”  
  
“Then they’ll be disappointed,” Bucky shot down that line of thought.  
  
“Fair enough.”  
  
“I’ll come back with you,” Bucky decided, and Steve’s heart leapt. “I’m tired of running. I’d like to stop. But I won’t be locked up again.”  
  
His jaw was set obstinately. When he leveled his eyes at Steve they were weary, beaten down, but they weren’t the empty eyes of the Winter Soldier from Steve’s nightmares. Steve saw a spark in them, and he wanted to keep it there. He chose his next words carefully.  
  
“I will do everything in my power to make sure that doesn’t happen.”  
  
“Yeah, I know you will,” Bucky sighed. “Give me a minute to get my stuff.”  
  
Steve watched as Bucky pried up the floorboards in the kitchen area to retrieve a large backpack. Bucky opened the top and shoved his journal and the pamphlet inside. After a moment of consideration he added the two candy bars from the top of his fridge, then swung it over his shoulder and went toward the front door. He retrieved his coat, dropped the backpack to put it on, and maneuvered the bag back over his shoulders. He looked at Steve expectantly.  
  
“Ready?”  
  
Steve smiled and made his way to the door. Bucky’s lips twitched at him. As good a smile as Steve would get under the circumstances. He’d take it. He’d take anything Bucky was willing to give him at this point.

* * *

_IV. Bucky_

_____

**1944**

_____  
  
Steve found him, after.  
  
On the one hand, Bucky had never wanted Steve to see him like this, especially not now, not this Steve. This Steve, with the rippling muscles that everyone called Captain America. This Steve, that Bucky still hadn’t gotten used to, not even after all these months with the Howlies. This Steve, that didn’t need Bucky anymore.  
  
On the other hand, he was grateful it was only Steve, and not the rest of the Howlies. He’d patched Steve up so many times growing up. He’d seen Steve at his weakest, and Steve wouldn’t judge him for this. He clung desperately to that thought as Steve helped him to his feet and covered Bucky’s nakedness with his trench coat. Steve wouldn’t think less of him. He wouldn’t-  
  
A sudden burst of pain, and Bucky’s knees gave out. He hung off of Steve’s shoulder like a ragdoll, futilely commanding his legs to work. Futilely commanding his ass to stop throbbing. He felt the blood on the back of his thighs, unbearably sticky. He knew it wasn’t just blood.  
  
“Hey, man, stay with me. You’re gonna be okay, just stay with me.”  
  
Bucky heard the horror in Steve’s voice. _He_ was horrifying. This was different from all the times he’d held Steve’s tiny body up and told Steve that everything would be okay.

He couldn’t get his legs to work. To his immense shame, Steve swept him up in his arms as if he weighed nothing and began to walk out of the room where Bucky had been held. Bucky couldn’t move, no matter how hard he tried. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t tell Steve to put him the fuck down.  
  
“Fucking Hydra,” Steve snarled. “I’d kill them all again if I could, slower this time. I’d fucking rip- ”  
  
Everything Bucky had been tuning out during his ordeal came rushing back to the surface. How they’d found him, surveying the Hydra base through the scope of his rifle while he waited for backup. How he’d fought, killed a few of them, but there had been too many and he’d been overwhelmed. How they’d brought him inside the base, to this room, and stripped him. To search him for weapons, he’d thought. He hadn’t realized what they were going to do to him until the first man had thrown him to the floor, crawled on top of him, and shoved his-  
  
No, but that couldn’t be what had happened. That didn’t happen to people like him. It was something that men, evil men, did to girls. Something that men like Bucky stopped. It didn’t happen to him. He must be remembering it wrong, it must have been something else.  
  
But he could still feel the residue on his thighs. He could still feel the ache of having so many men inside him that he’d lost count. He was horrifying, he was disgusting, and he was ashamed.  
  
“You’re gonna be okay, Buck,” Steve said again when they were outside. “You’re gonna be okay.”  
  
It was still daylight. Bucky had thought it would be dark by now, but the sun blazed cheerfully overhead. They’d found him in the early morning, and what they’d done to him inside felt like it had been an eternity, but it hadn’t been. It was still daylight.  
  
Bodies of Hydra soldiers littered the ground outside the base. Bucky found his voice.  
  
“Put me down,” he croaked indignantly. “I can fucking walk by myself.”  
  
The ground was soft under his bare feet. Pine needles pricked his toes.  
  
“I couldn’t find your clothes,” Steve said apologetically. “I looked, but I couldn’t find ‘em.”  
  
Bucky wrapped Steve’s coat tightly around him. It was warm underneath the shining sun, but he was shivering. He could feel the ghosts of their hands on him, ripping off his clothes. Clawing at his naked skin.  
  
“It’s fine,” Bucky grunted, staggering forward. His legs cooperated this time. “I’ll get new ones.”  
  
“Bucky- ”  
  
There was concern in Steve’s voice. Pity. Bucky bristled at it.  
  
“I don’t wanna talk about it, Steve.”  
  
He couldn’t look at Steve as he took another shaky step toward the forest surrounding the base. He tried to remember if they’d been finished with him by the time Steve had found him, or if Steve had seen the last one on top of him. He couldn’t remember. Or maybe he didn’t want to.  
  
“Bucky, look at me. Please.”  
  
Steve’s voice broke, and Bucky looked at him automatically. Steve looked lost, like he needed Bucky again, which was absurd. This Steve didn’t need him. Especially not now, not after the state he’d found Bucky in.  
  
“I’m here for you,” Steve vowed. “Whatever you need, okay?”  
  
Bucky thought for a moment that he was going to give in to his weakness. That he would fall to his knees and weep at Steve’s feet for what had happened to him. For what had been taken. Every time Hydra got their hands on him, here, in Azzano, they took another piece of him. He closed his eyes, swallowing hard as he clenched his fists against the temptation. The moment passed.  
  
“I need you to promise me that you won’t tell anybody about this.”  
  
He opened his eyes to see Steve’s face. Steve had that stubborn glint in his eyes. The glint that used to mean that Bucky was going to end up finishing a fight Steve was about to start. Back when Steve had needed him.  
  
“Steve,” Bucky said in warning. “That’s what I need from you. Okay?”  
  
“Okay,” Steve promised after a lengthy pause. “I won’t tell anybody, if that’s what you want.”  
  
“That’s what I want.”  
  
Bucky found a dead soldier with feet his size, and Steve found another with large enough pants. They rendezvoused with the rest of the Howlies, and Bucky made up a bullshit story about being held up in his location until Steve had come to his rescue. Steve slapped him on the back, lying about how the two of them had taken down the Hydra base together. The rest of the Howlies were duly impressed.  
  
Bucky did his best to keep himself together after that. Not to flinch when he was touched unexpectedly. Not to glare when he caught Steve watching him carefully, or snap at him when he quietly asked Bucky if he was okay. Not to remember. Not to feel the ghosts crawling across his skin in the night.  
  
Three months later, he fell from a train barrelling through the Austrian Alps. After that, he had other things to occupy his mind.  
  
*  
  
**2016**

**_____**

Steve came back from Lagos different. Bucky could see it in the sag of his shoulders and hear it in the despair in his voice. It worried Bucky. Steve was usually better at hiding his depression.  
  
Bucky had been living at the Avengers’ compound ever since Steve had found him in Bucharest. True to his word, Steve had done everything in his power to ensure that Bucky got amnesty. It had been easier than Bucky had thought, between Stark’s money, Steve’s influence, and Natasha’s intel. The government panel had taken one look at the files and footage of what Hydra had done to create the Winter Soldier and had granted him a full pardon. Bucky suspected that they’d been trying to wash their hands of their own complicity in the SHIELD/Hydra mess, but ultimately he didn’t care. He didn’t want to poke the bear. He was free.  
  
He wasn’t an Avenger. They’d offered him a spot on the team, but he’d turned them down. He was done with fighting. He’d been done with it the day he’d answered his draft notice. He only stayed with them because they let him and he had nowhere else to go. He had no viable job skills, beyond the fighting. He didn’t feel trapped, because he _could_ leave whenever he wanted. He just chose not to.  
  
Bucky could go out in public unnoticed most of the time, but he’d get recognized enough to make him uncomfortable. If it wasn’t recognition for what he’d done as Hydra’s pawn, it was for the other thing. The thing Steve had dragged him into.  
  
He didn’t blame Steve for that. Not really. It still irritated him that Steve had told, but he understood. It wasn’t as if Steve had laid out every graphic detail for the world to see, either, just Bucky's name and that it had happened to him during the War. Bucky knew Steve hadn’t meant to betray him. Steve had thought Bucky was dead and he’d been trying to do the right thing, to help people, the way he always had. That was what had drawn Bucky to him back when they were kids, and it was what made him stay now. Steve Rogers was so goddamned _good,_ and if he could find something worthwhile in Bucky then maybe Bucky wasn’t a completely lost cause. Even if they were still awkward around each other, every small conversation an attempt and a failure at restoring their bond the way it had been, at least Bucky knew that Steve believed in him. Considered him his friend.  
  
Except now, three days after the Lagos mission, and Steve wouldn’t look at him directly.  
  
Bucky knew they’d gone after Rumlow, who’d been calling himself Crossbones for whatever fucking reason. He knew Rumlow had died by his own hand, a suicide bomb meant for Steve thwarted by Wanda and Vision. Bucky was glad he’d never have to look at Rumlow again. He’d been the last of the Hydra soldiers who’d hurt Bucky directly. All the others had died two years ago when the launch of Insight had failed thanks to Steve.  
  
“Steve? What’s wrong?”  
  
The old Bucky wouldn’t have asked. The old Bucky would have let the wound fester, pretended everything was fine when it clearly wasn’t, and let Steve be the one to break down and confess what was wrong. This new Bucky, still figuring out exactly who he was, didn’t have time for that. He needed Steve to look at him as if he was worthwhile.  
  
Steve looked at him, eyes hollow with grief and guilt. That was confirmation enough for Bucky’s suspicions as to why Steve had been avoiding him. His suspicions about all the things a cornered Rumlow with nothing left to lose could have said to Steve before he’d died.  
  
“What did he tell you?”  
  
Steve glanced around, making sure they were alone in the common room. Bucky had already verified that for himself. Friday could probably hear them, but he didn’t really care.  
  
“Everything, Buck,” Steve’s voice cracked. “I know you don’t want me to apologize, but- but _I’m sorry._ God, I’m so fucking sorry.”  
  
Bucky was ashamed, and he was angry because of it. The one favor that STRIKE team had done for him was cut the camera feed whenever they’d come to the vault to use the Asset. There was no evidence of it anywhere, and now that Rumlow was dead Bucky was the last surviving witness. No one else should have known.  
  
“God,” Steve sank down on the plush sofa, putting his face in his hands. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“Stop,” Bucky snapped. “I told you, I don’t want your apologies. What they did isn’t your fault.”  
  
“He said- ” Steve was weeping softly, his voice muffled. “He said they never would’ve gotten the idea, if I hadn’t said anything. They would have left you alone.”  
  
Bucky had known all this, through inference. Hearing it verified, however, putting all the pieces of his vague recollections together, made his blood run cold.  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
Bucky’s voice was barely audible. If Steve heard him, he didn’t listen. His hands dropped from his face to his lap.  
  
“They gave me money, for the MSSN. Rumlow, he- back then he said they’d taken a collection to support me. It was so much money, I was so honored.”  
  
Bucky’s mouth had gone dry.  
  
“And in Lagos he told me how it was all money they’d collected from people fucking _bidding_ on you.”  
  
At least Boone had never gotten her chance to cash in, Bucky thought with grim satisfaction. There hadn’t been time, after he’d failed to kill any of the targets except Sitwell, and then Boone had been killed in the melee at the Triskelion.  
  
“I didn’t think about it after, when I knew they were Hydra. Where they got that money and why. I should’ve fucking known.”  
  
“Shut up!”  
  
Bucky hadn’t meant to yell. At least, he didn’t think he had. He’d just been trying to get something audible passed his lips. Steve’s mouth closed and he turned wide, streaming eyes up toward Bucky.  
  
_-bony hand swiping tears angrily away as Bucky came to help him to his feet. “I don’t need help, Bucky,” Steve said with wounded pride. His lip dripped blood and he had quite the shiner on his left eye. “Humor me, pal,” Bucky said kindly, hand outstretched. After a moment, Steve grabbed Bucky’s hand and let him lift him to his feet-_  
  
“I didn’t mean to yell,” Bucky said slowly. He spoke slowly sometimes. Getting words out in coherent order could be a difficult task. “It’s just- you’re talking like I’m supposed to say something to make this okay, and- and I can’t. I can’t be there for you, the way I used to. Especially not for this. I can’t _absolve_ you of this, Steve. I can’t.”  
  
“I know,” Steve looked down at his lap again. “I’m sor- I mean, I know. I can’t put that on you.”  
  
He looked so lost, and Bucky chafed against his instincts to say whatever he could to get Steve to stop beating himself up. That wasn’t Bucky’s job.  
  
“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Steve said quietly, as if to himself. “I shouldn’t have. I made it worse.”  
  
It wasn’t Bucky’s job to fix this, but, fuck, he wanted to. Steve needed him.  
  
“Look,” Bucky sat on the sofa beside Steve, leaving several inches between them. “I’m not- I’m still not okay with everything, okay? But it’s awful hypocritical of you to blame yourself for something that wasn’t your fault. You didn’t make Rumlow or any of those other guys do that stuff. They did it on their own.”  
  
As he said the words Bucky felt something lift from him. Something he’d been holding on to ever since he'd picked up that pamphlet and read Steve’s blurb about him. Maybe something he’d acquired even before that, ever since Steve had found him unable to walk out of that Hydra base in Germany. He felt the blame, shifting to where it belonged. Not on Steve. Not on Bucky.  
  
“Christ, Buck,” Steve was looking at him like he was worthwhile again. “You’re the best man I’ve ever known. Nobody deserves the shit you’ve been through, but especially not you.”  
  
“Nobody,” Bucky agreed stiffly. “But I’m not above anybody else in that.”  
  
He believed that wholeheartedly. He wouldn’t wish what he’d been through on anyone. Not even Rumlow.  
  
“Did any of the others hear what Rumlow said?”  
  
He didn’t know if he could look at any of the people he’d slowly come to view as friends again if they’d heard what that STRIKE team had done to him.  
  
“No,” Steve shook his head. “We all got separated. He was done by the time Wanda and Vision got there and stopped him from taking me and that city street out with him. Wanda put him in a force field and Vision helped her hold it together until the shockwaves ended. All they heard was him screaming as he burned.”  
  
There was grim satisfaction in Steve’s voice.  
  
“He burned,” Bucky repeated, that same satisfaction tinting his relief.  
  
He hadn’t felt completely free before, he realized now. There had been that shadow lurking at the back of his mind. A shadow that could find him, overwhelm him, speak a disjointed string of Russian words, and make him do anything. He knew others remained out there that could do the same, but none that had done the things Rumlow had done to him. As selfish as that was, preferring the shadows that had made him kill people over the ones that had used him for their sick pleasure, he couldn’t help it. He smiled as the shadow burned away in the light. Steve searched his face with puzzled hope.  
  
“Bucky?”  
  
Nearly two years later, and Bucky still wasn’t ready to forgive Steve for telling his secret. That didn’t mean he didn’t _want_ to be ready. He swallowed hard.  
  
“I’m hungry,” he swallowed again. “And, uh, Sam was telling me about some diner about fifteen minutes from here. Said they had something called ‘unlimited pancakes’. Sounds like it’s worth checking out.”  
  
He let the invitation hang in the air. Steve’s eyes widened joyfully.  
  
“The future’s an amazing place,” Steve quipped, smiling slowly at Bucky  
  
“That it is.”  
  
Bucky rose from the sofa and offered his right hand to Steve.

* * *

_Epilogue_

_____  
  
This was a mistake, Bucky thought as he stared at the back of Steve’s head behind the podium. A mistake, but it was far too late to chicken out now.  
  
“And I want to reiterate,” Steve was saying to the crowd. “That what I did was not okay. Even with the mitigating circumstances, I broke a promise and told a story that was not mine to tell.”  
  
Bucky smoothed back his hair unnecessarily. There was too much gel in it for even a strand to fall out of place. He’d wanted to pull his hair back in a ponytail and call it a day, but the look on Sam’s face had convinced him not to. That gleeful look that meant Sam was formulating an epic taunt at Bucky’s expense. Maybe it hadn’t been about his hair, Bucky reflected. Maybe it had been the shock of seeing Bucky wearing a suit.  
  
Steve was wearing his uniform, upgraded significantly from the one he’d worn in 1944. If he was forced to dress up, Bucky would have felt more comfortable wearing his tac gear, but he understood why calling back visually to the Winter Soldier was a bad idea. So monkey suit it was.  
  
“-I’d like to introduce, my friend, Sergeant James Barnes.”  
  
Bucky’s legs moved on their own, bringing him up to the podium beside Steve. His eyes ghosted over the enormous crowd of the Male Survivors Support Network’s beneficiaries and allies. He knew the Avengers, his friends, were down there, but he couldn’t see them. It was easier to focus on a point just above the heads in the crowd to find his voice.  
  
“Yeah, uh. Hi,” Bucky said into the microphone. He was too close, and the resounding feedback made the crowd ripple as they flinched.  
  
_Great start, Barnes._  
  
“Sorry,” Bucky adjusted the microphone slightly. “Okay. So, I’m Bucky, and I’m here to tell you my story, in my own words.”  
  
He had cue cards, but every time he glanced down at them the writing blurred. He breathed deeply. He knew what he wanted to say, even without them. He had this.  
  
“Most of you already know some of what happened to me. Before I go any further, I- I wanted to say that Steve’s right that no one should ever tell something like this, something that isn’t theirs, but I wanted to say that I understand why he did. I understand, and I forgive him.”  
  
Bucky didn’t look at Steve, standing off to his right behind him. He’d never told Steve that. Maybe he hadn’t realized that he’d forgiven him before now.  
  
“They told me, uh, that some of you really connected with my story. That you wanted to meet me. Hope you’re not too disappointed.”  
  
He grinned self-deprecatingly. His hand smoothed his hair again.  
  
“So, most of you know that I was- I was raped in 1944. A bunch of Hydra soldiers. Honestly, I don’t remember a lot about that. I just remember the shock, and the shame, and the desperation that no one ever find out about it. Steve found me, right after, so he knew, and he was- he was great. Back then, there was even less support than there is now, and there’s not nearly enough support now- ”  
  
He was starting to ramble. He closed his eyes for a moment. Breathed.  
  
“That’s the part you already know. Now, here’s the part you probably don’t. How Hydra got their hands on me again, and they got inside my head. Made me into someone else. Used me as a weapon for almost seventy years. Right before I- I woke up from that, a few Hydra operatives used the control Hydra had over me to rape me again.”  
  
The crowd was silent and still. Bucky barreled on, nearing the end. He didn’t think he could have stopped, even if he’d wanted to.  
  
“And that’s the background I needed to tell you before I could tell you the rest of what I wanted to say today. How, it’s- it’s not your fault, what happened to you. However much you blame yourself, however weak you think it makes you, you’re wrong. It wasn’t my fault, any of it, and blaming myself does a disservice to me as well as to all of you.”  
  
This felt better than when he’d found out Rumlow was dead. It felt better than when Steve, Sam, Nat, and Tony had found Karpov, living in Cleveland of all places. It didn’t feel as good as when he’d lit that red book on fire, but it was close. His room had reeked of burnt leather for weeks. He’d been disappointed when the scent had faded.  
  
“It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t my fault. The shit, sorry, the  _stuff_ that happened to us happened because there are people- there are always gonna be people- who think that what they want is more important than other people. They value power more than people, and that’s their problem, not yours or mine.”  
  
The words he was saying, that he’d outlined the night before, were all true. He knew they were true. He nearly believed them himself. He hoped that the people he was speaking to believed them.  
  
“So, uh, yeah, that’s- that’s what I wanted to say to you. And, I’ll, uh, I’ll be around after, if anyone wants to talk. I’m not real great at talking, but I’ll try. Anyway, thank you.”  
  
He stepped back from the podium, wondering why there was a roaring in his ears. It took him a few seconds to realize the crowd was giving him a standing ovation. He dipped his head, proud and embarrassed.  
  
“Hey,” Steve said, and Bucky turned to look at him. Steve had tears in his eyes. “That was great, Buck. That was really, really- ”  
  
Bucky hugged him. He didn’t think he’d hugged Steve since before the War, when Steve was small and fragile. It had been too fucking long.  
  
“Thank you,” Steve said, pounding him on the back. Bucky returned the gesture. He could be rougher with Steve now, but he was still gentler using his metal arm. He’d already hurt Steve enough with it. Even if it hadn’t been his fault.  
  
“Ready to meet them?” Steve asked when they broke apart.  
  
“As I’ll ever be.”  
  
Bucky straightened his tie, smoothed his hair unnecessarily, and followed Steve down the steps of the stage, into the crowd.


End file.
